


Atonement

by anniespinkhouse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Gen, Mark of Cain, Season 9, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniespinkhouse/pseuds/anniespinkhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 9.15 and loosely set at the end of s9.<br/>Dean will do anything to atone for allowing Sam to be possessed by Gadreel. Even this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Eek. A little something I needed to get out of my system - a possible turn for the Mark of Cain and heavens door being locked to the veil, that I really hope doesn't happen.
> 
> Disclaimer: The boys and their world don't belong to me, and it is with great regret that I return them after playing with them.

 

They should have been in the bunker; sterile, private and easy to clean but there’s a small patch of woodland on the hill above the bunker. On sunny days it smells of fresh peat, dry leaves and childhood. It’s the place that Sam chose, and Dean has learned the hard way that there are certain wishes that need to be respected.

 

His brother’s hair catches the light as it blows softly in a spring breeze.

 

“Hey. Sam! You know I never really minded your hair long.” He avoids using ‘Sammy’, and chokes on his words as he watches tendrils of it catch twist and shine in the dappled light.

 

“I know.” His brother half-chuckles, “You’re just jealous.”

 

Sam misses a step to wait until Dean is by his side, to nudge him in the ribs.

 

“I am,” he jokes back, pretending to flick his own short hair, and forcing a strained smile at his little brother.

 

They’re at the place too soon, walking side by side, over stumps and bushes, around trees and stones,  naturally in step, like they were for most of their life; until Dean screwed up.

 

Sam shades his eyes as he looks up through the trees at blue sky. “We should have built a tree house,” he says.

 

“Like the one in Illinois, when you were ten,” supplies Dean.

 

“I thought it was invincible, so I hid in it when dad wanted to move on, and fired rubber arrows at him.”

 

“He carried you down and you screamed all the way and cried until he bought you ice cream at the gas stop.”

 

Sam sounds wistful. “Yeah. I should have known better. Every Summer has to come to an end.”

 

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean tries not to beg.

 

He knows what Sam will say, and the bag in his hand is heavy. It burns his fingers and makes his head ache. He can feel the mark of Cain; a crawling death-mark on his skin.

 

“I do, and you have to let me.”

 

Sam’s look is heavy with regret and love, and his eyes burn golden hazel and stubborn.

 

“I know.”

 

Dean turns away so Sam cannot see the tears which fill his eyes. He struggles to open the zipper on his bag, and a long arm reaches to do it for him.

 

“Here,” Sam says with a sad smile, and Dean wipes the snot from his nose and hates how stalwart Sam can be.

 

He bites his lip hard to prevent a sob as Sammy’s arms envelop him in a warm, spicy hug, and he clings on, breathing in his scent, feeling every moment, appreciating it all. It is Sam who pulls away, to sit calmly in the sunniest part of the place, against the smooth trunk of an ancient tree.

 

“Dean. It’s time.” Sam holds out a simple pair of handcuffs, and a twisted tie, one of Dean’s. “I want you to use these, just in case. I don’t want you to stop, whatever I do or say.”

 

Dean feels sick. There’s an image of Sam burning into his mind, carrying his own cross on his back, and he can’t do this, _he can’t_.

 

Sam wriggles to get comfortable in the dirt and puts his own hands behind his back, and Dean kneels and fastens them, oh so carefully, ensuring that no skin is pinched.

 

“It’s what I want,” reminds Sam, and who is Dean to deny his brother this time? This is how he will atone for his mistakes.

 

“I could be the one…” begins Dean anyway. The habit of a lifetime is hard to break.

 

Sam shushes him, “You can’t. You are the one with Cain’s mark.”

 

Dean knows Sam is right, and it is cruel to keep stalling. A spell has been cast and he has to suck it up and get this done quickly, for Sam’s sake. He twists the tie as he wrings his hands and his whole body shakes with nerves and fear and loss.

 

“You know I forgive you right?”

 

Dean startles from his concentration, “For this?” he asks.

 

“For Gadreel. For everything.” Sam says, “I know it’s easier for me.”

 

Dean is flustered for a moment, “No chick-flick moments,” he replies with false bravado, and this time Sam’s eyes fill.

 

He blinks as he clears his green eyes, then stretches the tie resolutely between Sam’s teeth. “See you on the other side. Make sure Ash has cold beer waiting at the Road House.”

 

Sam is calm, and how can he do this without a tremble? “Make it later rather than sooner,” is the last thing that he says before Dean tightens the gag. 

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder, in a last futile gesture of reassurance.

 

The freshly sharpened sheep bone is cold and heavy in Dean’s hand, but he doesn’t delay. The first swing is the hardest. He sees the twist of pain in Sam’s face but hazel eyes continue to stare at him, taking in every detail of his older brother, as Dean swings the bone again, slashing throat and piercing blood vessels.

 

Dean is covered in Sammy’s blood and it’s sweet and warm and sticky. The mark of Cain burns and he can no longer stop. His arm moves of its own accord, heavy, lethal and traitorous. His tears trail tracks through splashes of red and he sobs with a loss that seems to rip his own heart and bleed every good thing from him. He can’t see the sun and he’s not sure it will ever shine again.

 

The fountain of blood ceases from Sam’s neck and Dean drops Cain’s weapon. He wastes no time in removing the gag and unlocking the cuffs and Sam sags into his hold. Hazel eyes are dull but they’re open. Sam’s gaze had not left his brother’s face, through each swing, even with his last gurgling pull for breath. He’s limp and heavy in his brother’s arms and his lips are slightly parted, as if to draw a breath that will never come, or perhaps to tease Dean for his tears.

 

He gathers Sammy’s body into his arms and lifts him, as if he’s five, with a broken arm. The bloody stain below the tree that Sam sat against darkens and sets like tar, and the tree’s fresh green leaves wither to dust and flutter like ash in the wind. Dean doesn’t see it.

 

Dean can’t think, so he works methodically. He lays Sam carefully on a steel table in the bunker. He undresses the stupidly long and muscular body and gently washes every inch of the now-pale skin. He notes every mole and every scar that traces their history, and dries the skin as carefully as it is washed. He threads a needle with finest surgeon’s thread and makes the neatest stitches to seal every gash in his brother’s flesh, before taking a warm bowl of water and washing the thick brown hair with fresh smelling shampoo and blow drying it into tousled perfection. He talks to Sam as he works; inane conversation and memories. Anything to delay the moment he has to acknowledge that his brother is gone.

 

Once Sam is dressed, in jeans and his favorite orange plaid shirt, he closes Sam’s eyes and kisses him goodnight for the last time, with a soft lipped kiss to his forehead. 

 

“If anyone can open the door from the veil, it’s you, Sam.”

 

The fridge that he consigns Sam’s body to, in the basement of the bunker, has no lock and is set to a steady temperature, with a back up generator on hand. Once the door to heaven is open, Sam will not be returning, but it doesn't harm to take precautions until then.

 

Dean doesn’t remember how he gets to the kitchen, but he’s not hungry. There are no more spells to work, no research that needs to be done, only time, and Cain’s last wishes to attend to. Castiel has his own business, and Sam didn’t want the angel to interfere or to ask him to stay.

 

Dean is lonelier than he has ever been, and he’s lost. He moves to wander out of the kitchen but he doesn't know where he will go. His hand touches the door handle and a yellow sticky note floats to the ground. _‘You have to eat, Dean. I need you to be ready when I find the door.’_ is written in Sam’s neat handwriting, and when Dean investigates the fridge, there is a sandwich and beer on the top shelf.  He can’t help the shake of his head and half-smile as he realizes now, why Sam insisted on Dean leaving the bunker before him.

 

He wanders aimlessly and finds himself in the library. Sam’s laptop is open and a short video plays on loop of all the photographs and footage they have ever had taken together. The short clips that Ed and Harry took on their hunt for Thinman are a surprise that Sam had kept from him.

 

Dean knows Sam well enough to know that there will be more notes, more that he has left of himself, because Sam was always the empathetic one, and Dean needs to keep some for later. He needs there still to be something left of Sam to discover.

 

He deliberately leaves Sam’s room closed and retreats to take a shower. In the bathroom he finds a single dose of sleeping tablets with a note, ‘ _These always knocked you out.’_

He’s sure he won’t ever sleep again but when he pops on his headphones and turns on his iPOD there’s a peal of Sam’s laughter, _“Don’t think you’re gonna get rid of me so easily, Jerk! If you don’t quit feeling sorry for yourself, I will haunt your ass.”_

“Bitch!” quips Dean as ‘ _Knocking on Heaven’s Door_ ’ begins to play. A brief, fond smile plays on his lips as his eyes start to close.


End file.
